Foul Play
by CRedford
Summary: Read and enjoy ;) Please comment/review! My second attempt at a classic Sherlock mystery...more focus on his and Molly's relationship this time. *UPDATED 5/18
1. Chapter 1

_Beeton's Pub, 12 Northumberland Street_

"…and so the string of murders remains unsolved by the Inspector and the rest of his team at Scotland Yard. New evidence, however, is sure to turn up as more witnesses are questioned. If you have any information regarding this case, please contact investigation services at 020-7902…"

"Idiot," Sherlock muttered, staring at his cup of coffee.

"Who?" John asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Lestrade."

"As usual," John said, flipping to the editorials. "He's doing his best. The case sounds nearly impossible."

"Few things are impossible. And no, it's the fact that he's let every paper in London publish a story about it on their front page."

"They were bound to find out at somepoint."

"They wouldn't if he would keep his mouth shut."

"I'm surprised you haven't shown any interest…"

"I never said that."

"What? You said that the case was boring and the…"

"That's not what I meant," Sherlock paused, sucking in a deep breath. "Lestrade apparently isn't interested on my help." He rested his chin on his hands, gazing into his mug.

"Well, I don't blame him. The way you acted during the last one…"

"I solved the case, did I not?"

"Yes, but you sent the police on a wild goose chase just so you could…"

"I can't think with every officer in London contaminating the crime scene!"

"It's their job, Sherlock."

"What, destroying the evidence?"

"Well, you solved the case. Just managed to piss off Lestrade in the process," John sighed, shaking his head as Sherlock ran his fingers through his curls.

"They need me," Sherlock groaned.

"I think you need them more than anything," John said with a half smile. "I'm sure Lestrade will call before the week's over. Sounded desparate in the paper." He glanced at Sherlock's phone on the table as it began to ring.

"Sherlock, it's…"

"I know who it is."

"Aren't you going to answer it?"

"No."

"But the…"

"No."

"Sherlock…"

"No."

"You're being…"

"I AM NOT BEING UNREASONABLE IN THE LEAST!" Sherlock shouted, slamming his coffee down on the table. "THE LAST THING LESTRADE AND HIS BLOODY TEAM OF DETECTIVES DESERVES RIGHT NOW IS MY HELP!" He stood up, grabbing his scarf and tying a quick knot around his neck.

"Sherlock…"

"Don't 'Sherlock' me. I'm getting some air," he muttered, slamming the door behind him as he left the restaurant.

_St. Bartholomew's Hospital_

"Formaldehyde."

"Here."

"Carboxylic acid."

"How much?"

"Seven milliliters."

"Here."

"Coffee."

"What?"

"Coffee," Sherlock said, looking up from his microscope. "Brown, brewed, usually served with cream or sugar…"

"Sorry," Molly blushed, picking up the steaming mug and placing it in his outstretched hand.

"Thank you," he said as he leaned in towards the eyepiece, adjusting one of knobs at the base.

"Anything else?"

"No." He paused, looking up at Molly from the microscope. "Actually, yes. I'd like you to answer a question for me."

"Yes. Yes, of course."

"If you were, for instance, an a forensic mastermind and an expert at the art of deduction…hypothetically speaking, of course…and your advice and expertise was not only ignored, but mocked no less, at the cost of, oh I don't know, let's say seven innocent lives, you wouldn't perhaps be a tiny bit irritated, now would you?"

"I'm…sorry? I mean yes…yes, I suppose I would. Why do you ask?"

"Guess."

"Is it about that case that's been all over the…"

"The papers? Yes, that would be the one," Sherlock muttered, gazing into the microscope. He didn't look up at the door to the lab swung open.

"Molly! Pleasure it is to see you here," a man in a white lab coat identical to Molly's said, smiling as he carried a tray of bloody scalpels to the lab sink.

"Mark! What brings you up here? I mean…obviously the scalpels…" Molly blushed, tucking some loose hair behind her ear.

"Just washing some of these off. Sink's clogged downstairs," he said, glancing at Sherlock as he turned on the water. "And who's this?"

"Oh, this is Sherlock. He's a detective…a consulting detective up at Scotland Yard," she beamed, glancing at Sherlock, who had finally looked up from his experiment.

"Ahh. The famous Sherlock Holmes," he said, reaching out his arm. "I'm…"

"Mark Dillanger," Sherlock said, shaking his hand.

"Clever. Not that I'm wearing a nametag or anything," he laughed, adjusting the pin at his chest. "I suppose you're helping the police with that one case. The one that's in the papers…"

"No," Molly said quickly, watching as Sherlock's mouth twitched. "I mean…they're still analyzing evidence. Usuallly Sherlock doesn't get involved until after he can have the scene to himself. He…he works better on his own."

"That makes perfect sense," he said, chuckling. "Why not let the police do all the dirty work?"

"What part, exactly, of solving a homicide don't you define as 'dirty work', Mr. Dillanger?" Sherlock said slowly, narrowing his eyes.

"I'm sorry…that was a bit rude. Certainly didn't intend for it to come out sounding that way," he said, raising his eyebrows. He turned to Molly. "So, how about dinner? Tonight, after your shift is over. I'll meet you out front," he said, glancing at Sherlock. "Unless you're busy, of course."

"Um…where did you want to go?" She said, flustered.

"Wherever your little heart desires."

"God," Sherlock muttered to himself.

"What was that, Mr. Holmes?"

"Nothing intended for you," he said, rolling his eyes.

"So, have we decided?"

"Um…how about that new restaurant down on Tembuld. It's Itallian, I think. Shannon said the food was pretty good…"

"Perfect. I've been meaning to go there myself," Mark said, heading for the door. "Oh, and we can stop by your place if you want to…you know, change clothes or anything," he said, winking before heading out the door.

"Oh, okay," Molly said quickly as the door swung shut behind him. Sherlock stood up quickly, buttoning his coat.

"Aren't…aren't you going finish?" Molly said, watching as he slid his phone off the lab table and into his pocket.

"I suppose I'll finish later. Wouldn't want to hold you up," he said quickly, adjusting his scarf and shutting off the hot plate.

"You're not holding me up. You're…my shift isn't over until…"

"Seven-thirty, I know. Enjoy the pasta."

"Sherlock…"

"Goodnight, Molly."


	2. Chapter 2

_44 Flood Street_

Lestrade stepped through the doorframe, his torch illuminating a thin layer of snow that had blown in through where the door should have been. The hallway before them stretched back a ways before veering of sharply to the left; dust and crumbling bits of paint clung to what remained of the drywall.

"Can I get another light in here, please?" Lestrade said, exasperated. He ran his fingers over a wooden beam that had fallen from the rafters. "My God…"

"Quite an explosion, don't you think?" Sergeant Donavan said, flipping on her light.

"Gas leak. At least, that's what David was saying earlier..."

"And exactly how many spontaneously exploding flats does it take to convince the Inspector that perhaps a gas leak isn't a probable explanation?" Sherlock said, removing his gloves and rubbing a piece of plaster between his fingers.

"Sherlock, this has absolutely nothing to do with the murders…"

"Hmm."

"Hmm?" Lestrade said, turning to Sherlock.

"Why would I waste my time here if this didn't have something to do with your homicide?" Sherlock said, kneeling and picking up a small, leather-bound ledger lying on the floor.

"What could this possibly have to with…"

"Well, we have three victims…"

"Yes, that's usually what people become when their house implodes…"

"Give me their names."

"What?"

"Names. Victims."

"Oh," Lestrade said, thinking for a moment. "There was Losev. Mikhail Losev, Samuel Dawson and…"

"Arthur Novikov. The two Russians were recent immigrants from Volgograd," Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow as he scanned the ledger. "Now this changes things…"

"Have you been into my files again?"

"I'm usually capable of doing my own research, thank you," he paused, his finger resting on a line in the first page.

"What's that?" Donavan asked, glancing over Sherlock's shoulder at the open book.

"Something of very little importance," Sherlock said, snapping the book shut. He turned to Lestrade. "If you won't be needing my assistance, Inspector, I have some business to take care of."

"Wait…Sherlock! What the hell are you doing?" Lestrade said, flustered as Sherlock headed for the doorway.

"Give a shout if anything interesting turns up."

"Sherlock, that's evidence! You can't take that!"

"I'm sure you won't be offended if I borrow it."

"Yes, as a matter a fact, I will be very offended…"

"Good. Enjoy yourselves."

"Sherlock! SHERLOCK HOLMES!" Lestrade shouted after him as he disappeared into the night.

_221B Baker Street_

"How's that experiment at St. Bart's coming?" John asked, setting down his newspaper on the coffee table.

"Fine."

"You sounded so excited about it the other day," Mrs. Hudson said, sipping her tea as she walked to the kitchen.

"The formaldehyde and Carboxylic acid aren't reacting as quickly as I thought they would," Sherlock said, gazing down at the street from the front window. "I've started another trial in the freezer. Hopefully that will speed the process," he said, glancing at John. "You weren't ever going to make those waffles, were you?"

"The blueberry or cinnamon?"

"Both."

"Really, Sherlock? Since when are your science experiments more important than my breakfast?"

"Since now. Obviously," Sherlock said, still looking out the window. "Don't we have some of that jam and marmalade stuff…"

"Toast?"

"Yes."

"You unplugged the toaster for the centrifuge."

"It's pointless! Bread has the same nutritional value," Sherlock said, turning to John. "And that device is a fire hazard."

"Oh, that's a fire hazard? I'm not the one storing that oxygen triphosphate…"

"Carbon disulphide."

"Whatever. I'm not storing highly flammable liquids in the pantry…"

"Who's storing flammable liquids in the pantry?" Mrs. Hudson asked, poking her head around the kitchen wall.

"You should find a better place to put those, John," Sherlock said, smirking.

"I'm just going to leave and hope that this all has something to do with you and your strange senses of humor," Mrs. Hudson sighed, sipping from her cup as she headed out the living room.

"Sherlock, someday you're going to get us both evicted…"

"Do you know anyone by the name of Nikita Rivstoy?" He asked, turning to John.

"Who?"

"Nikita Rivstoy?"

"No, I…I can't say I do. Why…"

"Let me rephrase the question. Say, hypothetically speaking, that you were trying to track down a man belonging to the Russian mafia, for lack of a better word, because he was responsible for an explosion killing three fellow members. The only problem is that he's not hiding."

"And this is all hypothetically speaking, of course?" John asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course."

"Well, if he's not hiding, then why haven't you gone after him?"

"Because it doesn't make sense," Sherlock said, pacing the floor. "Men like that can disappear, no questions asked. Like they never existed," Sherlock stopped turning to John. "Rivstoy doesn't even seem to be aware of what's happened."

"Well, maybe he's not."

"Look, John," he said, grabbing the ledger from the coffee table. He pointed to a note taped to the front cover. "People don't paste their names to the front of top secret ledgers. And the inside is meaningless." He turned to the first page, barely halfway filled with a few names and addresses.

"Where did you find that?"

"It's like they want to be caught," Sherlock said, scanning the rest of the ledger's empty pages. "But that's it. No transaction records, dates, times. Nothing but names."

"And not very many at that," John said, watching as Sherlock continued to pace the floor. "Does Lestrade know you have that?"

"Yes," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Just curious. This wouldn't have anything to do with that explosion on Flood Street, now would it?"

"Yes, actually…hang on, say that again."

"This wouldn't have anything to do with that explosion in Flood…"

"The ledger's a fake, John!" Sherlock said happily, snapping the book shut.

"How…"

"It was planted after the explosion…it couldn't have possibly survived a blast of that magnitude. It was planted to frame the person on the front of the ledger, and the rest of the people inside," Sherlock said.

"But you still don't know who actually committed the murders."

"Yes, but we know who the murderer wants to take the blame, and that, my dear Watson, is a very powerful tool in solving any crime," Sherlock said, a half smile crossing his face.

"So does this connect to that other string of murders the papers have been going nuts about?"

"Yes, and I'm sure we'll find out how in a half hour or so," Sherlock said, tossing John his coat.

"So where are we going?"

"367 Hampton Place."

"To see Khrushchev?"

"Rivstoy. Nikita Rivstoy," Sherlock said, buttoning his own jacket. "Let's go."


	3. Chapter 3

_367 Hampton Place_

"So Arthur's dead," Nikita Rivstoy said quietly. "I was hoping it wouldn't be so soon."

"But he knew it was coming."

"Yes. Anokhin wouldn't let him live much longer," he paused, glancing at John. "I suppose you two belong to the police."

"Who's Anokhin?"

"That depends on who's asking."

"Let's just say we have evidence that wouldn't make your life any easier," Sherlock said, handing him the ledger. "Recognize it?"

"No," he said, flipping through the pages. "I can't say I do."

"Didn't think so. Can you identify the handwriting?"

"Looks like Anokhin's," he said, handing the book back to Sherlock. "I suppose he tried to frame us for murdering our own members."

"Us?"

"Yes. My half of the _Bratva. _It means…"

"Brotherhood," John said. "It's Russian for brotherhood."

"Yes. The Russian mafia, as you call it. Each band is known as a Bratva."

"So you belonged to Anokhin's Bratva at one time?" Sherlock asked, standing up from his chair and walking over to the window.

"Yes. Until our brotherhood split into two…oh, what's the English word…"

"Factions."

"Yes. Factions. Vladmir Anokhin remained the leader in his. I led the others in rebelling against him."

"Why?"

"He and his followers believed that one of our founding members was a spy for some of our rivals. Arthur Novikov." Rivstoy sighed, leaning back in his chair. "I didn't believe it, so I remained loyal to him. I still don't believe it," he paused, shaking his head. "But that does not matter so much anymore, I suppose," he chuckled. "He was a good man."

"When did all of this happen?" Sherlock asked, turning to Rivstoy.

"Not but a month or so ago," he said, glancing at Sherlock. "Both of our factions have fallen apart since." He sighed, looking out the window. "Poor Grace. I wonder if she knows."

"Grace?"

"Grace Novikov. His daughter."

"Were they close?"

"Yes, very close," he said, pausing as he examined the ground. "He never wanted this life for her."

"Do you know where Anokhin is now?" John asked.

"No. Good luck finding him," Rivstoy said, shaking his head. "He's a ghost when he doesn't want to be found."

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Rivstoy," Sherlock said, adjusting his scarf. "Come on, John. We've got ourselves a murderer to catch."

_Scotland Yard_

"So why were you at Nikita Rivstoy's," Lestrade asked, sipping his coffee as he leaned back in his chair. "And you still haven't answered my first question."

"Are these really necessary?"

"Yes, since whenever I want to ask you anything regarding, let me remind you, _my_ case, not your case, Sherlock, you seem to conveniently disappear," Lestrade said, watching as Sherlock continued to fight with the metal cuff attached to his wrist. "Now let's try this again

"I have the murderer," Sherlock said, fumbling with the clasp.

"What?"

"I have the murderer."

"He does," John said from his seat in the corner of the room. "Wouldn't shut up about it in the car."

"Enlighten me. Why am I still attached to this?" Sherlock said, trying to free himself by putting the clasp between his feet.

"Who is it?"

"Who's who?"

"The murderer, Sherlock."

"I have my rights."

"No, you don't."

"I'm chained to a desk."

"Exactly my point. Now please…for once in your life, be agreeable."

"You can't make me," he said stubbornly, struggling with the chain.

"Really now? Because if I know you well enough, you won't be able to keep it secret for much longer. You're too proud," Lestrade smirked, stirring more cream into his coffee.

"Fine. If that helps you sleep at night."

"So if I closed this case and said that Nikita Rivstoy was responsible for the death of Mikhail Losev, Samuel Dawson, and Arthur Novikov, that wouldn't bother you at all…"

"But he didn't do it," Sherlock said slowly, eyes narrowing. "It was Vladmir Anokhin."

"Who the hell is…"

"Leader of the other faction of their Bratva, and he's going to get away if you don't unchain me from this…"

"Where does he live?" Lestrade asked, leaning forward in his chair.

"He's not going to be there. He'll be long gone before you leave headquarters."

"Well at least we'll have something that will point us in the right direction."

"90 Sumter."

"Donavan, look that up for me. And get my car."

"Yes sir."

"You'd better not be fooling with us this time, Sherlock," Lestrade said, grabbing a file from his desk.

"I don't make the same mistake twice, Inspector," Sherlock said, smirking.

"Good," he said, working his key into Sherlock's handcuffs.

"Thank you sir, and good day," Sherlock said, reaching for his scarf. "Come on, John."

"Aren't you coming?"

"Not this time. Send a cab for me tomorrow morning around eleven, and I'll see what I can do."

"We don't have time. By tomorrow morning, he'll be halfway to…"

"Trust me, Inspector," Sherlock said, smiling to himself as he headed for the office door. "I'm rarely wrong about these things."


	4. Chapter 4

_221B Baker Street_

"Read it again."

"Tabitha Belov. Nikolas Breshnev. Dmitri Chekov. Victor Zarubin. Pasha Nevzerov…Sherlock, we've been through this nine times," John sighed, setting the list of names on the coffee table. "I mean, it makes sense. All of these people belonged to Rivstoy's faction, so Vladmir Anokhin wanted them dead."

"Hmm."

"So he killed them and framed Rivstoy. End of story."

"But the only murder that actually went out of his way to frame Rivstoy was the explosion, which killed Arthur Novikov himself. Who were the other two?"

"Um…Mikhail Losev and Samuel Dawson."

"Why did he want the murder of those three people pinned on Rivstoy?"

"Sherlock, you have the murderer. It doesn't matter why he did it, or who he framed…"

"Yes it does, John! It's inconsistent…we're missing something," Sherlock said, plucking the violin loudly in his lap.

"Maybe we should find him first."

"I can't find him if I don't know where he went and why he went there," Sherlock said, reaching into his pocket for his phone as it rang.

"I thought I told you eleven," Sherlock said, setting his violin back on the end table.

"Well, this couldn't wait until eleven."

"I doubt that."

"The Ministry of Defence sent agents down to headquarters."

"What?"

"The Ministry of Defence. They've been all over our files…they want to know more about this explosion."

"Which one are they interested in?"

"Which what?"

"Victims. Which one of the victims are they concerned with?"

"I don't know, they…they haven't told us anything."

"I need a name, Lestrade. Give me a name and I can solve this case."

"They keep mentioning Arthur Novikov…"

"Arthur Nov…thank you, Lestrade. You have no idea how much you've helped," Sherlock smiled, sliding the phone back into his pocket. John shook his head.

"You can't keep hanging up on…"

"It was Novikov! I can't believe I didn't see it before!" He shouted, turning to John.

"Arthur Novikov. Wasn't he…"

"The one who Vladmir Anokhin thought was a spy? He was a spy, in fact," Sherlock said, eyes gleaming. "An agent for the Ministry."

"So he was working undercover for the British government?"

"Exactly. Vladmir Anokhin found out and wanted revenge, so he killed two birds with one stone."

"What was the second bird?"

"He knew that the Ministry would be interested in the case as soon as they found out that one of their agents had been killed."

"And once the Ministry was involved, Anokhin knew that it would be impossible for Rivstoy to escape," John finished, shaking his head. "Brilliant."

"Ready?" Sherlock asked, reaching for his coat.

"For what?"

"The fun part."

"Sherlock, I've got…"

"We've got to catch Vladmir Anokhin," Sherlock said, tossing John his coat.

"We still don't know where he is."

"Yes, as a matter of fact…"

"I've got a date."

"What?"

"A date. It's what people do to…"

"How could that possibly be more important than catching a murderer?"

"Well, it's Sarah and I's first anniversary…"

"Oh God, not that anniversary business again," Sherlock muttered, adjusting his scarf.

"I promised Sarah that I'd…"

"You aren't even supposed to remember those!" Sherlock shouted, turning to face him. "You act like you're married to the woman!"

"I had to cancel our date yesterday because of you dragging me to Scotland Yard!" John said angrily.

"Well, you should've said something."

"That wouldn't have mattered to you and you know it."

"No, it wouldn't have. But that's not the point…"

"The point is that all you care about are your mysteries and your homicides and your science experiments!" John shouted as Sherlock glared back at him. "Can you possibly find room in your heart to care about anyone else? Just for once?" Sherlock paused, staring at John.

"Well, have fun then," he said bitterly, heading for the stairs.

"Sherlock, it's not your job to catch him. Tell Lestrade where to go, and he'll…"

"I finish what I start, John!" Sherlock shouted up the stairs before slamming the door behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

_Pont Street_

"I checked there, Inspector."

"Did you knock or climb up her fire escape?"

"Both."

"Are you sure there wasn't anything?"

"Yes. Don't waste your time."

"Well, looks like Anokhin gotten to her. God knows where she is now," he sighed. "I still don't understand why he would go after her."

"Grace Novikov knows all of the Bratva's secrets, and has connections to the Ministry because of her father. As long as she's alive, Vladmir Anokhin is in danger." He paused, examining the sidewalk beneath his feet. "I think we'll be looking for a body soon."

"And what about Anokhin?"

"Impossible to find after Grace is dead. He'll be long gone."

"That's not like you, Sherlock."

"I'm just stating the facts. Unless you plan on getting a search warrant for the entire Russian continent," he sighed, watching as traffic sped down the street.

"Are you alright?"

"What?"

"You heard me."

"I'm fine," Sherlock said quietly. "Right as rain."

"I'll pretend that I believe you. Call me if you think of anything else."

"I will."

"Goodnight, Sherlock," Lestrade said, hanging up the phone.

"Goodnight," Sherlock said, pulling the phone slowly away from his ear. He slipped it into the folds of his coat, making his way down the empty sidewalk. It was nearly nine o' clock, with the day's rain collecting in puddles on either side of the street. He passed a bookstore and a bank, stopping in front of an alley as his phone rang again. He glanced down, staring at the name for a moment before blocking the call. That last thing he wanted was to interrupt John's anniversary dinner.

He gazed down at the ground, noticing a small plastic badge strewn against the base of the brick wall. His eyes widened as he read the tag: _St. Bartholomew's Hospital, RN Mortuary Unit. Molly S Hooper._

"Name sound familiar, Mr. Holmes?" A man spoke from the shadows, stepping out from the alley.

"She had nothing to do with this, you…"

"I suppose I don't need to introduce myself, then," Dillanger said, smirking. "Remember me?"

"Clearly."

"Why don't you come with me, and we'll get this all sorted out," Dillanger said, smiling.

"And if I don't?"

"You're a smart man, Holmes," he said, eyes gleaming in the night. "I think you know the answer to that."


	6. Chapter 6

"Mark Dillanger."

"Okay, hold on…nothing."

"What?"

"Never worked here."

"He did, I…are there and other records?"

"As far as I can tell, he's never been employed at St. Bart's."

"Surgery reports, prescription forms…anything?"

"Nope."

"Alright," Sherlock sighed, biting his lip. "Don't call me back anytime soon. I'm a bit…preoccupied."

"What?"

"Nevermind, just…thank you, Shannon," he said quietly, hanging up and quickly sliding the phone back into his back pocket. He heard two sets of feet approaching; one a slow, heavy footfall, the other light and quick. The door to Sherlock's room opened, casting a stream of light on the dingy floor.

"Mr. Holmes. Glad you could join us," a man with a thick accent said, dragging a woman behind him through the doorway as he entered the room.

"Please. Please, just let…let me go," she said, breathing heavily.

"Here we are, sweetheart," he said, tossing her to the corner of the room. Her head and shoulders slumped, brown hair clinging to the blood on her cheek.

"See? Look at the mess you've gotten her into," he chuckled, sitting himself down in front of the chair Sherlock was tied to.

"What did you do to her?" Sherlock said, his voice barely a whisper. He gazed at Molly's face, streaked with blood and tears.

"I don't think you're in any position to be asking questions, Mr. Holmes…"

"Answer me!" Sherlock shouted, face full of rage. "What did you do to her?"

"What do you know about Grace Novikov?"

"I don't know! I've never met the woman."

"Come now, Sherlock. Can I call you that? Oh, I haven't properly introduced myself, now have I?" He smiled, reaching out his hand. "I'm…"

"Vladmir Anokhin," Sherlock said, staring at him from his seat.

"Very good. It's a shame you work for those fools at Scotland Yard, no?" He laughed, leaning back in his seat. "Now let me ask you again. Where is Grace Novikov?"

"I don't know." He said slowly, still glaring. "I don't where she is, and neither does Molly."

"It was Mark's idea," he said, motioning towards Molly, who still lay unconscious on the floor. "He thought you might be a bit more…agreeable, if she came along." He gazed at Sherlock a moment as he stood from his chair. "For her sake, you might want to consider a having a different answer when I come back." He gave Molly a quick glance before heading towards the door.

"And I bet you'll have a different question when you come back," Sherlock muttered as the door slammed shut behind him. He struggled with the rope, eventually managing to untangle his wrists from the back of his chair. He stood from his chair, kneeling next to Molly where she lay.

"Molly," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Molly, you have no idea how incredibly sorry I am." He paused, gazing at her soft face, mangled with blood and sweat. She breathed slowly, each breath light and shallow.

"I suppose we've already been through this before, haven't we," he said quietly, placing two fingers on the upper part of her neck as he felt her pulse.

"Yes, we…we certainly have," Molly said, her eyes slowly opening. "I much preferred the hospital bed, though."

"Molly," Sherlock said, a relieved smile crossing his face. He brushed the hair from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear. "Molly, I'm…"

"Don't apologize," she said, as Sherlock helped her straighten herself up against the wall. "If it weren't for my bad tastes in men…"

"Yes, and I'm not talking about Dillanger," he said with a small smile. Molly blushed, looking at the ground.

"It's not your fault, Sherlock."

"Well, it's certainly not yours. That only leaves one of us."

"It was Mark's. He's the one who…" she paused, glancing at Sherlock. "Did you know about…about him?" I mean, that he was in this whole thing?"

"No. No, I don't think he would've made it out of St. Bart's alive if I'd have known," he said, looking at Molly. "How was the pasta?"

"Terrible. Worst place I'd been to in a long time," she said, laughing a bit.

"I'll keep that in mind," Sherlock said half-jokingly as he stood, glancing at the door. "I suppose we should think of a way out of here."

"Do you have your phone?"

"We can't call the police. Never call the police."

"Then what are we going to do?" She said, watching as Sherlock paced the floor.

"Well, if you're feeling up to it," he said, a smile crossing his face as he turned to Molly. "I have an idea."


	7. Chapter 7

"Shh. Lay still," Sherlock whispered, placing his hand against Molly's forehead. He frowned, reaching for her wrist to feel her pulse.

"I'm so cold," she murmured, clutching Sherlock's jacket to her chest.

"You're burning up," he said, placing his scarf beneath her head. "Has the pain gotten any better?"

"No…worse, really," she said, shivering. "Mostly on…the right."

"Don't worry. We'll get help soon, I promise," he said, smiling weakly. "It'll be alright."

"I hope so," she whispered, eyes closed. Sherlock stood up slowly, walking to the door in the corner of the room.

"Help! Somebody, please!" He shouted, slamming his fists against the wood. "Anokhin!" He paused, listening for a voice on the other side. "Anokhin, this isn't a game anymore! People are going to get hurt."

"Settle down, Sherlock. No need to shout," Dillanger's voice sounded from the other side of the doorway. "I hear you're little friend isn't feeling quite up to par."

"Please. She's practically unconscious…"

"Anokhin still wants an answer."

"A knife. A knife and some thread, that's all I need," Sherlock said, his voice desperate. "She has appendicitis, Mark, and she's not going to hold on much longer."

"Well, let's make a deal then, shall we? You give me a satisfactory answer, and I'll send someone in with your supplies."

"224 Thresher Drive," Sherlock said quietly, pressing his cheek to the door.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. You've been surprisingly cooperative with us this time," he said, chuckling to himself. "Anything else you'd like me to tell Vladmir for you?"

"Go to hell."

"Very tastefull. You'll have your things in a moment." Sherlock listened as his footsteps echoed down the hall.

Sherlock waited a minute or two, sighing with relief as the door finally reopened.

"Here you go," a younger man said, stepping in and handing Sherlock a knife and spool of white thread.

"Has this been sterilized?" Sherlock asked, holding out the knife.

"Um, I'm not…I'm not really sure…"

"What are you, a bloody fool?!" Sherlock shouted, throwing up his arms. "Get me a box of matches! NOW!"

"Yes sir," the boy squeaked as he headed out the door, leaving it open behind him.

"Let's go. We've got one shot at this," Sherlock whispered, motioning for Molly to stand up.

"Here's your jacket," she said, handing him his coat.

"Thank you," he said, tossing the knife and thread to the corner of the room. "Feeling better?"

"Much."

"Thought so," he said with a half smile. "Come on, we still have to do the actual escaping part," he said, grabbing Molly's arm as they headed down the hallway.

"How did you know where Grace was?" Molly said, stopping to remove her heels. "Telling him wasn't part of the plan."

"I have know idea where she is," Sherlock said, pulling her through a doorway and into the stairwell.

"Then where did…" Molly paused, her eyes widening as she heard a voice behind them.

"Clever. Very clever," the same boy who had given them the supplies said, smiling as he pointed the gun to Sherlock's head.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Sherlock said, raising his hands slowly in the air.

"Yeah? Why not?" The boy smiled, cocking the hammer as he moved his finger to the trigger.

"Because you'll never be able to forgive yourself if you do."

"I doubt that, Mr…"

"You have a girlfriend living with you at your flat," Sherlock said. "She's pregnant."

"How did…how did you know that?"

"I promise you this," Sherlock said, slowly turning around to face him. "If you shoot me, you will never be able to look that child in the face and say that you love him." He paused, staring into his eyes. "Not after you've killed a man." He lowered his gun slightly.

"I've killed someone before. I…"

"No you haven't."

"Yes I have…"

"If you'd had, then you wouldn't have let me talk," Sherlock said, grabbing Molly's arm as they headed down the stairs.

"I'll be sure to remember that next time," the boy whispered to himself, aiming at Sherlock's back.


	8. Chapter 8

"Don't do that," Sherlock said, groaning as Molly applied pressure to the wound.

"Do you want to live?" Molly asked, tearing off another piece of her jacket's lining.

"Yes…if it's not too much…to ask," he said, breathing heavily. Molly smiled.

"You're going to make it," she whispered, leaning in towards his face. "Understand?"

"I'll try," he said, smiling weakly. "No guarantees."

"You will," she said, biting her lip as tears rolled down her cheek. She pressed the cloth harder into his chest. "Just keep breathing."

"You make it sound so easy."

"He…he was just a kid. I don't know how he brought himself to do it," she said quietly. "I certainly couldn't."

"You'd be surprised at what people do when their pride is at stake." Sherlock glanced up at Molly. "I'm sorry."

"What…what for?" Molly said, confused.

"Dragging you into the case. Again."

"Sherlock, I'm not the one with a bullet lodged in their ribcage," she said, lifting the cloth and checking his wound underneath. "The bleeding's slowed down a bit."

"We need to leave."

"We need to call an ambulance."

"After we get out of here," Sherlock said, wincing as he brought himself up on his elbows.

"You can't be move torso," she said, holding his back as he tried to sit up. "It'll tear up your wound again."

"I'll manage," he said before falling back into Molly's arms, gasping for breath.

"You'll manage lying down," she said, setting his head gently on the cement floor.

"Alright," he said slowly. "You go on your own."

"Sherlock, I'm not leaving…"

"Go out the exit at the bottom of this stairwell. Follow the alley until you get to Pont, then get ahold of someone at Scotland Yard." He paused, looking into Molly's eyes. "Don't make a sound until you're out of the alley. Understand?"

"I'm not going anywhere," she said quietly.

"We're both going to get ourselves killed if you don't."

"If I go, you'll get yourself killed! Either Dillanger will find you or you'll bleed out on the floor," she said, tears rolling down her cheek.

"You have to. I'll…I'll be fine. Just get Lestrade over here," he said, eyes glistening. "Quickly."

"No," Molly said, shaking her head. "No. I won't."

"Molly, I…" he paused, looking at her for a moment. "I don't know how you do it."

"Do what?" She said, wiping the tears from her face.

"Be yourself. Put up with people like me," he sighed, smiling. "If I were you, I would've just left and let myself bleed out and die."

"You don't deserve that, and you know it."

"Perhaps. But I certainly don't deserve someone like you," he said, glancing at Molly. She looked down, her face flushed.

"I…I don't think that's true…" she paused, listening as voices echoed off the brick walls.

"Sherlock! God, what happened?" Lestrade shouted from the top of the stairwell, surrounded by a herd of inspectors and police officers.

"He's been shot," Molly shouted as Lestrade hurried down the stairs.

"Get me an ambulance hear, now," he said to the men behind him, kneeling at Sherlock's side.

"Took you long enough," Sherlock said with a half-smile.

"You'll be alright. We've got an ambulance on its way."

"I do have ears, Inspector."

"Yes, well…we'll get you to a hospital soon." He paused, glancing at the wound. "Do you know where Anokhin is?"

"224 Thresher Drive."

"Where the hell is that? And why would he be…"

"I told him that's where Grace was," Sherlock said, smiling.

"Grace Novikov? She's at headquarters," he said, confused. "We were planning on putting her in witness protection until Anokhin was…"

"I'm aware."

"Then why'd you send him there?"

"Mycroft's place. He told me earlier that he was hosting a dinner for the head of defense and the deputy prime minister," Sherlock smiled, clearly amused with the genius of his plan.

"So, naturally, you sent one of the world's most dangerous criminals to drop by for a visit."

"Naturally."

"I'm not following you."

"How many miles away do you think he'll get before every secret service agent in the country has him and his men with their faces in the dirt?" Sherlock said, glancing at Lestrade.

"Well…that's one way to do it, I suppose," Lestrade said, shaking his head. "Of course, this would have nothing to do with irritating your older brother, now would it?"

"Come now, Inspector. Would I ever sink that low?" Sherlock said with a smirk. He glanced at Molly. "I think Molly will also be needing medical attention."

"Just a few bruises, that's all," she said quickly, glancing at Lestrade. "I'm fine, really."

"We'll make sure she gets some," Lestrade said to Sherlock, standing up as the EMT's arrived. "You're both going to be fine."

"Thank you, Molly," Sherlock said, looking at Molly as he was slid onto a stretcher.

"Don't thank me yet," she smiled, squeezing his hand. "I'm not going anywhere."


	9. Chapter 9

_4 weeks later_

_Scotland Yard_

"How did it go?"

"Fine," Sherlock said, buttoning his jacket as he and John headed down the hallway, towards the lobby.

"I'm surprised they didn't offer you a job."

"They did."

"And?"

"I appreciate your sense of humor," Sherlock said, smirking. "Third time Lestrade's asked."

"Why on earth do you say no? We have rent to pay on our flat, you know."

"He only offers because he knows I won't take it," Sherlock said, glancing at John. "And he knows I won't take it because I don't want it. I don't want to play their little detective game…I'd be spending more time filing for search warrants and filling out paperwork, anyhow."

"I see," John said as he and Sherlock stepped outside the building, making their way through the crowd towards on sidewalk. "How's Molly?"

"How would I know?"

"Yes, and I don't suppose you've been going to St. Bart's twice a day just to check up on your experiments..."

"They're extremely important, which is obviously above your level of comprehension," Sherlock said, quickening his pace as a sharp gust of wind blew against their faces. "You're just imagining things."

"Am I?"

"Yes," Sherlock said quickly. He paused, glancing down at his feet. "So how's Sarah?"

"What?"

"How's Sarah?"

"Oh. Well, she's not…I mean, we're not exactly…"

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. It wasn't the anniversary thing," he paused, biting his lip. "It just…wasn't working out."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said quietly, stopping as he looked past John to the street beside them. "I mean...I'm sorry for not asking before." John smiled, meeting Sherlock's eyes as he glanced at John.

"Don't worry about it."

"Sherlock Holmes?" A woman seated on a bench beside them asked. Sherlock and John turned around, watching as the woman stood, smoothing out her coat. "I was hoping I'd run into you."

"It looked more like you were waiting."

"Well, yes," she paused, adjusting her sunglasses before she spoke. "I wanted to thank you."

"For?" He said, raising his eyebrows.

"I think you know." She gazed at him, her lip curving into a small smile. "I know my father would want to thank, too. If he were here." She turned to John, extending her hand. "You too, Dr. Watson. Lestrade didn't forget to mention you."

"Thank you," John said, shaking her hand. "Grace Novikov, isn't it?"

"Grace Anderson. Changed my name just…just in case," she said quickly, glancing at Sherlock. "The Ministry insisted."

"It's for the best. Your father would understand, I'm sure," Sherlock said.

"Yes. Well, thank you. And thank you, Dr. Watson."

"Please, call me John," he said quickly.

"Alright. John," she said, smiling. She turned to Sherlock. "What I'd really like to ask you is if there's anything I can to do repay you. My father did leave me with a decent amount of money in his bank accounts…I mean, it's the least I can do…"

"No," Sherlock interrupted quickly. "No, neither of us could do that, Miss Anderson."

"Please. It would make…"

"We couldn't," John said. "You don't owe us anything."

"You're just as stubborn as they make you out to be," she sighed, glancing at Sherlock. He glanced at John.

"Well, there is one thing," he said, a small smile crossing his face.

"Anything."

"You could let us take you to lunch."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm hungry. And I'm sure John feels the same…how about Beetons?"

"Of…of course," Grace said slowly, giving him a confused look.

"John? Up for a sandwich?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm starving," he said, equally confused.

"Perfect," he paused, reaching in his pocket for his phone. "Huh. Can you believe that?"

"What?" John said, leaning over to look at the screen. Sherlock quickly slipped it back into his pocket, adjusting his scarf.

"Looks like Lestrade needs me back at the Yard for questioning. John, I'm sure you can handle Grace on your own"

"But Lestrade already…"

"Grace, I apologize. You'll have to eat with this poor bachelor by yourself," Sherlock said, patting John on the back. "Well, have fun you two."

"Sherlock, I…" John called after him as he continued down the sidewalk.

"You'll thank me later."

_221B Baker Street_

"Sherlock!" John called up the stairs, slamming the door behind him. "Sherlock!"

"Yes?" He mumbled, holding a pillow over his head as he lay on the couch.

"I can't believe you did that," John said as he entered the room, sitting in the chair across from him.

"You can't? I'm surprised at you, John."

"But I wanted to thank you."

"Good. I deserve it."

"We're meeting again…"

"This Saturday, I know. Speedy's, or the Italian place on Pont?"

"Speedy's." John said, shaking his head. "I don't know why I bother telling you these things. I hardly need to."

"Exactly my point." He rolled off the couch, walking towards the window.

"Although you could've left out the poor bachelor part."

"I was telling the truth, was I not?" He sighed, pacing across the rug. John smiled, propping his feet on the ottoman.

"You're a bit restless today."

"No more than usual."

"So you're just pacing for the exercise?"

"Perhaps."

"Take a walk."

"No. I'm thinking. Too many people outside to think," he said, gazing into the street below.

"Well, you could…"

"I went to check on my trisulphate experiment at St. Bart's while you were out."

"I assumed so."

"And Molly was there."

"Obviously," John said, raising his eyebrows. "She had nothing to do with your visit, I'm sure."

"What…what do you do?" Sherlock said suddenly, turning around to face John.

"Do what?"

"That's what I'm asking."

"I mean…do what when?"

"When what?"

"You tell me."

"But I asked you first…"

"Sherlock, you're going to have to be a bit more specific," John said, watching as he continued pacing across the floor.

"What do you do when…I mean, how can I…" Sherlock looked at John helplessly.

"Do you like her, Sherlock?" He asked, looking up at him.

"Yes."

"Then ask her out. On a date."

"I can't."

"You did a fine job setting me up with Grace."

"I…I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I haven't," he said quietly, glancing at the floor. "I haven't done it before." John stared at him.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Never? Not in school?"

"No."

"So you've never dated? Jesus, Sherlock, you're how old?"

"I never said I hadn't dated. I just said I hadn't asked anyone"

"What, a blind date?"

"College. Sophomore year."

"What happened?"

"None of your business."

"Oh," John said, glancing at Sherlock, who had stopped pacing. He gazed out the window as rain began to fall, darkening the sidewalk below. "Is that all?"

"Yes." He said, looking at John. "Please, just…how do you do it?"

"Ask her out to lunch. To coffee…it doesn't have to be a big deal."

"What if she says no?"

"Sherlock, trust me. She won't say no," John said, shaking his head.

"You think so?"

"Yes. I'm positive."

"So I just…ask?"

"Yes. It's relatively simple."

"Well then, I think my trisulphate is done freezing. I'll be down at…at the hospital," he said, fumbling with his coat.

"It'll be fine. I promise."

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you," Sherlock said, turning to face him as he wrapped his scarf around his neck.

"You're welcome," he said, watching as Sherlock disappeared down the stairwell.


	10. Chapter 10

_St. Bartholomew's Hospital_

"So. Has it frozen yet?"

"Not quite. A few more hours should do the trick," he said, sliding the trays back into the open freezer. "Then we can boil it down and extract the sodium with the centrifuge."

"We?"

"Yes," he said, knocking one of the test tubes from the rack. He turned to Molly. "Problem?"

"No, not at all."

"Good," he said, shutting the freezer door. He glanced at Molly as she set down her clipboard.

"Want me to grab you a cup of coffee?"

"No," he said quickly. "I mean…would you rather me get you some?"

"What?"

"I do know where the coffee machine is. Two creams and a sugar?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"By the color whenever you drink it."

"Oh. That's clever," she smiled, as Sherlock slowly made his way towards the door.

"Actually, I have a better idea," Sherlock announced, turning back to Molly. "Why don't you accompany me?"

"To the coffee machine?"

"Well, yes. I mean, no. To go get coffee."

"From…the machine?"

"We could do that. Or," Sherlock said, fidgeting with flask on the lab table. "Or we could go somewhere. Other than the coffee machine."

"You want to go out and get coffee?"

"Yes. With you. If you want. Of course, if you don't want to, the machine is perfectly…"

"Sherlock?" Lestrade burst through the door, followed by Donovan and a swarm of inspectors. He stood, panting as he looked directly at Sherlock. "Sherlock, it's Grace. She's dead."


	11. Chapter 11

"Do we have a cause of death?"

"Heart attack," Molly murmured, her brows furrowed as she pressed her finger against Grace's neck. Lestrade walked around to the other side of the table, sitting down on a metal stool.

"Heart attack. You sure?" He said, his face puzzled.

"Yes," Molly said quietly, meeting Sherlock's gaze from the other side of Grace's corpse. She bit her lip, nodding towards Lestrade.

"She's only twenty five. A bit young for that, I'd say," Lestrade said, sighing as walked over to the body's side. "It's a shame."

"I need to think," Sherlock muttered, running his fingers through his hair. He looked up, gazing at Lestrade expectantly.

"What?"

"Please."

"Please what?"

"I said please."

"Sherlock, I'm not leaving. If you need space, there's a perfectly good hallway outside the door over…"

"WE DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS, INSPECTOR!" Sherlock shouted, pointing towards the door. Lestrade glared for a moment, then turned to leave. They watched as he slammed the door shut behind him.

"Problem solved," Sherlock said, turning to Molly. "What is it?"

"She's not dead," Molly whispered, rummaging around in the cabinet behind her.

"Sodium Triphosphate," Sherlock murmured. "The EMT's couldn't detect her heartbeat."

"Or her breathing. But she needs a counteractant soon, or she won't make it," Molly said, grabbing a vile from the cabinet and shaking it. "I didn't want Lestrade here because…well, I'm pretty sure it was…"

"…self-administered," Sherlock paused, gazing at Grace's face. "She wanted the EMT's to think she was dead."

"But why?"

"Well, she obviously counted on someone she knew finding her. Before it became fatal," he paused, watching as Molly poured the mixure into a syringe. "She wanted to disappear."

"I thought…I thought she was safe?" Molly said, sliding the needle into her forearm.

"Safe is relative," Sherlock said quietly. "You're never safe."

They waited a moment, watching as Grace's eyelids eventually fluttered open, her breath returning as she glanced between the two of them.

"Afternoon," Sherlock said as Grace rubbed her eyes.

"Mr. Holmes? What…where am I?"

"The morgue."

"Oh." She paused, propping herself up on her elbows as she took in her surroundings.

"Who's after you, Grace?" Sherlock asked, looking at Grace.

"Where's Riley?"

"Riley?"

"Agent Oliver Riley," she said, eyes widening. "Didn't you know?"

"About what?"

"The ministry…" she paused, glancing nervously at Molly.

"Molly can keep a secret," Sherlock said, looking at Molly. "Continue."

"Some of Anokhin's connections from Russia located me. They came to my apartment the other night and tried to…well, the ministry had an agent posted on watch, so everything turned out okay. But they decided that it wasn't safe for me here anymore," she paused, glancing at the floor. "They were going to send me to the U.S…make it look like I had died of a heart attack. They told me Agent Riley was supposed to show up after the EMT's declared me dead, then take me back to headquarters."

"Who informed you of this, Miss Novikov?"

"Two agents from the ministry showed up at my flat and talked me it last night. They gave me the drug, too. Told me how to use it and when to take it."

"Did they give you identification?"

"Yes, of course."

"Wait a moment," Molly said, scanning a print-out lying on the lab table. "The sodium triphosphate in her system isn't formulated quite like the traditional medical compound," she paused, glancing at Sherlock. "Somebody made this in their own lab."

"What do you mean?" Grace asked, looking from Sherlock to Molly with wide eyes.

"It means that this," Sherlock said, sliding the catalyst solution from the lab table's steel surface. "Was Anokhin's doing. Or at least his bratva's." He paused, turning to Grace. "Chances are they're looking for you now, and it won't take them long to find you here."

"So, what do we…"

"Keys?" Sherlock said, turning to Molly.

"What?"

"Keys. To the car."

"What car?"

"Your car."

"I…I don't have it. It's in the shop for repairs," Molly said quickly. Sherlock muttered to himself, grabbing his phone from the counter.

"We can't take a cab. Too risky," he said, holding the phone to his ear after he'd dialed. "John, I need Sarah's car." He paused, rolling his eyes. "Yes…yes, I'm aware…why would she mind? You said…John, this is important…no…yes, I checked…yes…why would I ask Lestrade?" Sherlock said angrily, glancing at the door. "He's…yes, I know, but I can't have him screwing everything up and getting someone killed…alright, fine then!" Sherlock yelled into the phone, hanging up and stuffing it back into his coat.

"Sherlock, I've been waiting out here for ten minutes," Lestrade said as he reentered the room. His face grew pale as his eyes met Grace's. "Sherlock, why is…"

"I don't have time to waste explaining the situation, so don't ask questions," Sherlock said, reaching for his scarf hanging from a hook in the wall. "Get Mycroft on the phone and tell him I need him here immediately. Tell him to meet me at the hospital's back entrance."

"What, you think I have your brother on speed-dial? Why don't you call…"

"Are you think I have that creature's phone number? Please, inspector. It pains me enough to have to ask him for help." He turned to Molly and Grace. "I'll meet you in the back. Use the stairs, not the elevator."

"Where are you going," Molly asked as she helped Grace up from her seat.

"I'll meet you there," Sherlock said quickly, glancing back at Molly. "Just…just be careful."


	12. Chapter 12

"Where is she, Mr. Holmes?" A voice said from behind Sherlock. The dimly lit corridor beneath the hospital cast shadows across the man's face as Sherlock slowly turned. "The longer I have to wait, the more painful your death is going to be."

"Really?" Sherlock said, chuckling as the man drew a step closer, holding a revolver aimed at Sherlock's forehead. "I find that hard to believe."

"And you're so sure?"

"Yes."

"Why?" The man said, smiling as he lowered the gun to his side. "I think you're afraid."

"Am I?"

"Clearly."

"I think you're the one who's afraid, Mr. Novikov." Sherlock watched as the man stepped from beneath a shadow, revealing a well-worn face and dark eyes. His smile faltered.

"You're quick, Mr. Holmes," he said, tucking the gun inside his coat. He looked up at Sherlock, raising an eyebrow. "At least, that's what I've been told."

"Perhaps it's time you decided for yourself," Sherlock said, gazing back at him.

"When did you figure out that we were tracking your phone?"

"When we found Grace's dead body."

"Almost dead," Novikov said, eyeing Sherlock. "Not yet, at least."

"Creative plan. Almost worked," Sherlock said, smirking.

"You think I don't know that you're trying to distract me while Grace and your little lab friend escape?"

"Obviously," Sherlock said. "But I think what you don't know is how this is all going to end."

"Enlighten me."

"The first two explosions. You were trying to kill Grace, but she managed to avoid them. To avoid the police getting suspicious, you faked your own death."

"And why would I do that?"

"Because you couldn't bear the thought of your daughter knowing that her own father was the one who killed her," Sherlock said, stepping closer. "You got Anokhin to take the blame."

"Who would take the responsibility for someone else's murders, Mr. Holmes?" Novikov laughed, eyes glinting in the faint light.

"Someone who was threatened," Sherlock said, watching as his smile faded. "You threatened to kill Anokhin if he refused." Sherlock's lips curved with satisfaction as Novikov slowly raised his hands.

"Alright. I admit, you're an intelligent man," he said, arms above his head. His face slowly broke out into a grin as he lowered them, reaching for his gun. "But how are you going to prove it?"

"Proving one's self isn't necessary when the truth is evident."

"But it won't be," he laughed, holding the cool metal to the spot above Sherlock's ear. "Not when there's no one left to see it."

"NO!" A shout rang out from the corridor. Molly's face emerged from the shadows, her body trembling as she held a small hand gun out in front of her.

"We were just talking about you," Novikov said, grinning at Molly. "Join the party."

"Let him go."

"Not tonight." He paused, turning to Sherlock. "What, no sarcastic remark?"

"Molly, go," Sherlock said quietly, looking at Molly. "Please."

"No." Molly shook her slowly, taking a step forwards.

"Please. Please, don't do this," Sherlock said, eyes pleading. Molly continued to shake her head, glancing at Novikov.

"Not after what he's done." She stared at Novikov, hands still shaking as she gripped the gun. Sherlock bit his lip, looking down for a moment. "He's done this before, and I'm not going to let him…"

"Dammit, Molly!" Sherlock shouted, snapping his head up as he glared at her. "Leave before you get both of us killed," his voice shook as he spoke, eyes glistening. "I don't need you."

Molly's lip trembled as she took a step backwards. Novikov laughed, digging the gun harder into Sherlock's scalp.

"Perhaps if you leave, I'll forget I saw you here," Novikov said, raising an eyebrow. "For now, at least." Tears rolled down Molly's face as she turned, shoes clicking down the hallway as she slipped back into the shadows.

"I hope you still have a friend to miss you after you're gone," Novikov said, moving the gun's hammer into place. "But I doubt you do. You have quite a way with people."

"One could say the same of you."

"Maybe," he said, laughing. "But unlike you, I could care less." He moved his finger to the trigger, gripping Sherlock by his curls as he twisted the end of the barrel further into his head. "Goodbye, Mr. Holmes." The shot rang out, echoing off the concrete walls.


End file.
